


please please please (let me get what i want)

by izzybeth



Category: A Knight's Tale (2001)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Letters, Literacy, M/M, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Minor Original Character(s), Taverns, a healthy mish-mash of history and fiction, can be read either way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28145466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybeth/pseuds/izzybeth
Summary: or, Five Times Geoff Tried To Win Wat's Heart, and One Time He Didn't Have To
Relationships: Geoffrey Chaucer & Kate (A Knight's Tale), Geoffrey Chaucer & Wat (A Knight's Tale), Geoffrey Chaucer/Wat (A Knight's Tale)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 52
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	please please please (let me get what i want)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wildlives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildlives/gifts).



> Happy Yuletimes, wildlives! It's been a minute (years, actually) since I've written any fic, and this was super fun to write! I've never actually written a 5+1 before, so thanks for the prompt, and I really hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Thanks to Nelle for beta!
> 
> Title is The Dream Academy version, it seemed very Geoff to me.

_one: reunion_

Geoffrey Chaucer was slumming and he knew it, but his apartment over the Aldgate suited him exceptionally well. Through the west-facing window he could look at the city, and the east-facing window let in a fresh breeze and showed him a lovely view of St. Botolph's, the St. Clare Abbey, and the countryside. The fresh water well was practically on his doorstep, and it was complicated enough of a walk through the streets and closes to the taverns that he could at least pretend a modicum of virtue. The inhabitants of his neighborhood might have been slightly unpolished, but his travels with Will— _Sir William_ — had habituated him to a touch of roughness, and he felt quite at home among the cordwainers, tailors, wainwrights, and oystermongers.

Yes, Geoff considered himself one of the luckiest men in London, situated in a prime perch atop the old Roman wall.

A true connoisseur of human behavior.

Master of all he surveyed.

By God, he was lonely.

Things had become rather a whirlwind after Will defeated Adhemar, and before Geoff could say "now hang on a moment," the Prince had hustled him off to court again, where he'd had to justify his six month absence to King Edward and his Lord Gaunt. Which had been simple, delightful, and not utterly stressful or fraught in the least. Will and Jocelyn had been presented to a slightly confused court, the Prince had ordered a feast for his newest knight, and before Geoff realized it, Will and Jocelyn had gone back to France (of course Roland and Christiana had gone with them), and he was back in the king's employ, up to his hips in wool exports and customs disputes.

Geoff was finally able to come up for air some weeks later, and realized that he was on the eastern end of London and Philippa was in Westminster as a lady-in-waiting, he hadn't been able to start writing Will's story, he hadn't seen Kate in only the Lord knew how long, he hadn't been to a tavern in a dog's age, and he wasn't even sure if Wat had accompanied Will and Roland to France or stayed in London.

He was well capable of fixing at least one of those things, so off to the pubs he went.

The windows of the Cheapside public houses were lit up against the falling dark, cozy and inviting to a man who had long been without companionship and ale.

And then he saw it. A sign. No, not the divinely inspired kind, the kind that said "there's a tavern here, welcome, friend." And it wasn't just any pub sign. It was also Will's shield.

Of course Geoff went in.

The packed floor was swept clean, the furniture was a mix of sturdy benches and tables, simple chairs, and low stools near the hearth. The place seemed quite popular; hardly a seat was free, and people loitered near the fire with their mugs of ale. The publican by the barrels had his back turned, but Geoff would know that flaming hair anywhere. "Hello, what can I—" The man turned around and stopped dead. "You— what— Geoff! What the hell are you doing here?"

"Hello, Wat." Geoff found himself trapped (no, trapped wasn't the right word at all, was it?) in strong arms, Wat grinning and dragging him further inside.

"Well come on, come on, let me get you an ale, on the house, where the hell have you been?" Wat pushed Geoff into a chair and plonked a mug in front of him. "We ain't seen you in ages, mate, I'm sure there's an explanation?" Wat looked him, mouth set in a downturn, eyes hard.

"Well, yes," Geoff started. He had quite forgotten how forceful Wat could be. "It turns out, I have a job? With responsibilities and expectations?" He winced.

"Oh, what's that, then?"

"Er, comptroller of the Port of London." Geoff coughed, feeling deeply uncool. "But you've your tavern, just like you said! What's it called, then?"

"Three Phoenixes, what d'you mean, controller, what's that about?"

" _Comp_ -troller, my dear Wat, and it's all very boring, you wouldn't be interested." Geoff downed half his ale in one go. "However, I would like to discuss your choice of appellation—"

"Oh, no you don't, you wily git," said Wat, poking Geoff in the chest. "It sounds poncy. Explain."

Geoff wilted. "I'm a customs official, Wat, I'm basically a glorified accountant. The king gave me the job, how am I supposed to say no?"

Wat scowled. "So that's why you ain't been around, the king gave you a cushy job and now you're too high and mighty for the likes of me, aren't you!"

"That isn't true at all, Wat, and I'm truly desolate that you would think such a thing." He scratched his nose. “Though I suppose it could be that it’s a punishment; I did forge Will’s patents…” Geoff dug around in his pocket for a penny. "May I have another?"

"Don't be daft, put that away," Wat said, grabbing Geoff's mug and filling it from the tap. "Friends drink free."

"Still friends, are we? After I so cruelly abandoned you to the glamorous and exciting world of taxes and tariffs?"

Wat filled his own mug again and sat down across from Geoff. "Oh, I forgive you. So long as you have a decent explanation of why it took you so damn long to come to my pub."

Geoff sighed. He wasn't making a very good show, was he? "Because I didn't know you had one. And I didn't even know if you were still here or if you'd gone with Will."

"You ain't seen Kate, neither?" Geoff shook his head and Wat rolled his eyes. "Mate."

"I know, I know, I'm a terrible person, I should be thrown outside the walls and shunned."

"Yeah, naked and starving, just like we found you. All right, all right, I'll leave off. I thought it were funny you never showed up or sent word. Those noble types must have kept you that busy."

"Remember how I said I'd make a story out of our adventure?" Wat nodded. "I haven't had a moment to even begin."

"Thought you was a writer by trade," Wat said.

"Mostly by choice, and by necessity when the muse strikes. I enjoy it. It doesn't pay the landlord." Geoff took another long drink. "Never mind all that, you must tell me why you named your tavern _Three_ Phoenixes. I mean, really, Wat."

"It's us, isn't it!" Wat gesticulated wildly at nothing in particular. "Me, Will, Roland. 'S why we made Will's shield like that. Three phoenixes, rising from the ashes of… whatever."

Geoff grinned. "Traditionally there's only the one phoenix, you know. Burning up and rising again, reborn. It's rather the point, if I remember correctly."

"Yeah, yeah, it's heraldry, though, no one's heraldry makes any damn sense." Geoff of course had to concede to that truth. "Anyways, I bought the house with the money from Paris, bought supplies with the winnings from London, and I already finished paying the sign painter, so what's done is done. And I like it."

"As you should, my friend."

As they talked (and talked and talked, well past closing), Geoff felt tension that he hadn't known he carried drain from his body. His shoulders felt looser, and his heart lighter. Wat had extracted a promise from him to not only return, but also to start writing something and bring it along because Wat didn't trust him not to bend the truth about his working habits. Geoff's feet didn't quite skip and dance their way home, but it was a near thing.

_two: letters_

The letters always came together, in a pair. One from Will and Jocelyn, the other from Roland and Christiana. At first they told tales in educated, elegant script, but had recently come to include commentary and signatures in wobbly but determined letters as well. Will still included a doodle, which Geoff appreciated. Often it was a broken lance or a phoenix, but the last few missives had horses trotting through the margins, farmers harvesting grain, and in one extremely short but momentous letter, a quick drawing of an infant in swaddling clothes.

That one, as soon as Geoff read it, sent him tearing through the wet streets to Three Phoenixes.

"Wat! Wat!" Geoff burst through the door, unsurprised to see the tavern empty but for two or three indistinct figures who clearly didn't want to be noticed. Getting the day started a bit early, Geoff thought, not that he was judging. Far be it from him to criticize the choices of others. And his news was far too important to be bothered.

"Christ Almighty, Geoff, you're frightening the horses." Wat emerged from the back room, wiping his hands on a cloth. "What's the bloody fuss?"

Geoff snatched the cloth from Wat's hands and wiped it over his head. It was truly pissing down, and the splatter off the dirty London eaves and walls was rather disgusting. "Have you had any letters today?"

"Yeah, haven't looked though. Been…" Wat glanced at the pub's current patrons out of the corner of his eye. "...busy."

Geoff scoffed. "Busy! Doing what, lulling them to sleep with your lively discourse on which bit of the Thames smells worst today?" No, damn his mouth! He was trying, really he was. "What I mean to say is, I received a particularly fascinating letter this morning, and I think perhaps you may have as well?" He drew the parchment from a pocket and flourished it under Wat's nose.

Wat grimaced, and shuffled off through the door to the back room. Geoff considered going after him, and weighed the benefits of that to how much a punch in the nose would hurt. Before he had made up his mind, Wat came back, head drooping and shoulders slumped, and he shoved a piece of parchment into Geoff's chest. He mumbled something that Geoff couldn't make out at all.

"I didn't catch that, my ginger friend." Geoff grinned as Wat grumbled and fidgeted.

"I said I can't read it, all right? Mister Educated And Literary?"

"Oh, Wat," said Geoff, slipping the parchment from between Wat's fingers. "That's— you know I don't think any less— look, shall I just read it, then?" Wat flipped his hand into the air in a clear I-don't-care gesture. "Right. Let's sit down, shall we?" Geoff wrapped an arm around Wat's petulant shoulders and led him to a chair. To his delight (and relief, it had been a bit of a risk), Wat sat down (and did not hit him). "All right. I guarantee you're going to want to hear this."

> _Wat,_
> 
> _The swiftest of notes today, not because we don't wish to give you the news, but because the house is in an uproar: Christiana has given birth to the sweetest baby girl you ever saw. Her name is Isabelle, she has a head full of dark hair, and she screams like the very devil is after her. Let's hope her looks take after her mother and not Roland, she already has her father's lung capacity..._

_three: wine_

"It's nice, I suppose."

Geoff couldn't help but feel a little put out at Wat's mild indifference. "Nice? It's _nice?_ Wat, do you realize what sins people would commit to keep this place?"

Wat wrinkled his nose. "It's… big, I guess. Lots of space?"

The chamber walls bounced Wat's voice back, subtly pointing out its size and raising an eyebrow at its emptiness. Geoff huffed. "It's brilliant, is what it is. You've no idea what you're talking about." Geoff lit a few more of his precious candles. "See, look at the views!"

"Mate, you're lighting candles. It's the middle of the day and you're lighting _candles."_ Wat gave a pitying look that put Geoff's back right up. "Don't you have to be able to see to do your scribblings?"

"Ideally, yes— look, just let me worry about the light, tell me what you think of the views."

Wat looked dutifully out of the window that faced the city. A piece of parchment pinned to the window frame caught his eye, and he pulled it down and into the meager light. He tilted his head to one side, silently sounded out the words, and then turned to Geoff. "'A gallon of wine daily for the rest of his life'?" Wat squinted at the parchment again. "Did I read that right? King bleeding Edward is giving you enough wine to drown a puppy every day for the rest of your natural life?"

The places this man's mind went. Geoff truly couldn't fathom it. "Yes, Wat, though I would just as soon drink it as drown a puppy."

"What the hell else did you do for him, then?"

"Do you know, I'm not entirely sure." Geoff glanced at Wat out of the corner of his eye. "Perhaps he simply likes me."

"Unbe-fucking-lievable." Wat slapped the parchment against the window frame and jammed the pin back into it. "King's pet."

"Hey, now."

"You are! 'Ooh, I'm Geoffrey Chaucer, I'm entrusted with the English wool trade and the monarchy just _adores_ me!'" Wat affected an accent and pitch in what Geoff was forced to admit was a rather good, if slightly hurtful, imitation.

"Stop that." Geoff produced a heavy jug from under the bed and hefted it in Wat's direction. "It was a complimentary piece of verse for St. George's Day, if you must know. Do you want the nice wine or not?"

Wat's eyes grew enormous. "Wine from the king's own household—"

"Well, I wouldn't rate it that highly—"

"Yeah, I want it." Wat sat in the room's lone chair and put his hand out. "Did I mention how nice this room is? Really. It's not cold or drafty at all."

Geoff opened a chest and brought out two wooden cups. "Just wait a moment, you savage, we're not swigging from the jug like pirates."

_four: tale_

"So… what do you think?" Geoff rolled a quill back and forth between his palms.

Wat squinted at the pages. "This Wallace bloke, that's Will, right?"

"Yes, yes, all names changed to protect the guilty." Geoff waited for Wat to voice an opinion, make an observation, acknowledge what he'd read in any way. He didn't. Geoff sighed. "Wat, you know how I value and respect you, and of course you are free to compose your thoughts in your own time, but you must realize that you're killing me here."

Wat grinned and tossed the pages onto the table. "It's all right."

Geoff crunched the quill in his fingers. "Only 'all right'?"

"Yeah, I mean it's not _bad_ —"

"Oh joys and wonders, he says it's not complete rubbish."

"—but it's a bit… I dunno, wordy? Flowery? Like, all right, you've got _Roger_ saying all sorts to _Christina,_ how her voice is like a rushing stream and her eyes are like starlight, and Roland would never, mate."

Geoff flung the broken quill onto the table. "I know! Oh, it is rubbish. You were generous not to say so aloud. I think I might scrap it completely. Start over. It couldn't be worse than what I've written already."

"But it's what happened," said Wat. "I mean, generally. Not so much in the details, but the plot of the thing is right." 

"I know, but who would even believe it, anyway." 

"You're not supposed to believe it, it's a _story."_

Geoff mm'ed, and slumped forward onto his arms. He was a hack. A talentless, dull, incompetent third rate fabulist who wasn't worth the ink he scrawled with.

Wat sighed, excessively so if you asked Geoff, and said "Fine. And you'd replace it with what?"

Geoff blew little puffs of air at the quill, watching the feathers move. "I don't know, maybe a love triangle. Everyone likes a love triangle." He looked up at Wat without lifting his head from the table. "Probably."

Wat plunged his hands into his hair and gripped it. "The Lord God as my witness, Geoff, you will write our bloody story if it's the last thing you do. I'll make sure of it."

"Oh, you will, will you?"

Wat gave him a wicked grin. "Yeah, I will. You can't get rid of me now."

Geoff just smiled. As though he would want to.

_five: gift_

Geoff stopped in the forge's doorway, narrowing his eyes against the smoke and dimness. A blonde woman in a kerchief and a leather apron with soot on her face approached him. "Good day to you, sir, can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm here to see the lady of this fine establishment." Geoff peered over the woman's head, trying to see into the shop.

"I'm sorry, she isn't taking new work right now—"

Geoff put on his most charming smile. "Oh, she'll want to see me, I guarantee it, my friend."

"You'll have to come back another day—"

"Who's that, Alice?" A short woman in a split skirt emerged from the gloom. "If it's that Lord Nash here about his armor— Geoff!"

"My dear Kate!" He pulled her into an embrace. "It's been too long!"

She laughed and freed herself. "We met at Three Phoenixes a week since, you eejit." She turned to the young woman. "Off you go, then, back to work."

"A cruel taskmistress is our lady smith!" Geoff watched Alice disappear into the forge.

Kate stepped out into the street where they could hold a conversation unbothered by heat and smoke. "She's a good girl, that one. Her apprenticeship's coming right along. It'll be her forge when I've not got the strength for it anymore, but I haven't told her that."

"My lips are sealed." Kate would be whacking great lumps of steel for years, Geoff thought. "At any rate, I have a commission for you, though you may be too busy for it?"

"Don't be daft." Kate smacked him in the chest. "What is it? I can fit in something for a friend."

He squeezed her briefly around the shoulders. "Wonderful Kate. I've had this idea for a gift…"

—

Warm light from inside the tavern as well as conversation, laughter, and a ribald chorus spilled out the door and into the street as Geoff walked into Three Phoenixes carrying a small bundle. The fire was hot, the company was good, and clearly the drinks were many, if one were judging by the coherency of the song. He listened as half the singers started one verse and the other half started a different verse, which devolved into bickering over whose version was correct. A girl with a hurdy-gurdy and another with a pipe exchanged a glance, and began a different tune which the tipsy singers took up with great enthusiasm.

Geoff laughed to himself and waded through the crowd toward his beacon, that signal fire of orange hair. Currently the man attached to the hair was pouring ales and nodding along to whatever an old geezer was moaning about, and quite obviously in need of a rescue.

He caught the eye of one of the barmaids. "Hilda, do you think you and Peter can manage for a bit? I need to borrow the master of the house."

Hilda patted Geoff's cheek. "Of course, no bother. Go on, I'll bring you something to drink once I can spare a moment."

"Thank you, madam." Geoff snagged Wat by the elbow, pulling him away from the barrels he was manning, and dragged him to a miraculously empty table.

"What d'you think you're doing, we're up to our ears here!" Geoff noted that Wat did not get up and leave, despite his protests.

"Hilda said it was all right," said Geoff. He set his bundle on the table, and blew a kiss to Hilda as she dropped off a pair of mugs and sped off again to keep an eye on the raucous patrons who were well into another chorus of _too-rah-loo-rah too-rah-loo-rah-ayyy!_ He pushed the bundle across the table to Wat. "I got you something."

Wat frowned and poked at it with a wary finger. "You got me something."

"Oh for the love of— just open the damn present, you ungrateful wretch."

Wat switched his frown to a grin in an instant. "Present!" He tugged at the brown cloth until it gave and released its contents onto the table. They clanked.

"Do you like them?" Geoff chewed his lower lip.

"Do I like them." Five small steel cups, each etched with one of the phoenixes that graced the sign of the tavern, rested on the table. Wat picked one up, holding it nearer to the candle on the table. "Do I _like_ them, he says." He set all five of them in a row and looked at them. "Geoff."

Geoff fancied he spied a wee manly tear gathering at the corner of Wat's eye, and dared a grin. "I suppose it was a bit presumptuous to include myself, but—"

Wat tumbled out of his chair and hauled Geoff into an embrace. "You wanker."

Geoff settled Wat next to him on his bench and kept an arm wrapped around his shoulder. "A wanker, am I?" Wat tucked his face into the crook of Geoff's shoulder and gave a great sniffle. "Well, if you insist." With his free arm, he reached out and picked up one of the cups. "They turned out rather well, didn't they?"

Wat sat up and cleared his throat quite thoroughly. "I s'pose you had 'em done somewhere?"

"As if I'd go to anyone who isn't Kate for smithing, she'd have me beheaded for treason."

"Kate made these?" Wat stopped wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "They're from our Kate?"

"Well, she made them, but I—"

Wat gathered the cups back into the cloth to carry them. "Pride of place for these." He looked around the tavern. "Dunno where that is, really. Might have to put up a shelf for them." He opened the parcel and took one out again to admire it. "Gonna have to make something nice for Kate. What does she like, capon? I could do her a nice stuffed capon with fennel and dill…"

Ah well, the cuddle was nice while it lasted, Geoff thought as he ineffectually brushed at the damp spot on his shirt.

_+one: rescue_

Geoff's favorite nights at Three Phoenixes were the quiet ones. The ones where poor Hilda wasn't run off her feet, Wat didn't have to drag any troublemakers out by the scruffs of their necks; where the old gaffers by the hearth carped on about the plague days while a few young couples giggled behind their hands; where he could sit by a window with a candle and a cup of mead and just write.

That night, it seemed someone else had a similar idea. She was sat in a dim corner, setting quill to parchment and picking it up again over and over. Geoff inspected his cup. Near enough to empty. He downed what was left and wandered in the direction of the barrels, taking enough of a detour to hear her mutter, "This bloody poem is driving me to drink."

So she was a fellow writer, excellent. As lovely as Wat was, occasionally Geoff felt he needed a bit more intellectual stimulation. "A colleague! I'm a writer as well, perhaps I could be of assistance?" 

She flicked her eyes up to him and immediately back down. "Get off, ye posh southern arsehole."

"Well now, that's nice."

The writer lifted her head, getting a proper look at him. "Hang on, you're that Chaucer bloke."

Ah, she probably recognized him from Will's successes. "Well, yes I am, how lovely to meet a f—"

"I read that Duchess book."

"Really! How wonderful! What did you think?" Someone read his book! Someone who wasn't a patron or who hadn't employed him in some way! Someone out in the actual world knew his work! Geoff thought this might be one of the best days of his life.

"What a bunch of absolute rot." Geoff felt his mouth open, but the inconvenient thing about it was that nothing was coming out. "Bloody Roman gods and personifications and that, who can relate?"

Geoff gaped a bit more, then forcibly got a grip. "It was an _allegory—"_

"Complete nonsense, more like. No one here knows from Juno, mate." The writer smirked at him. So, not a colleague then, Geoff thought. A rival instead.

Well, he wouldn't take this lying down. Her poem was giving her some trouble, was it? "So what's yours about then?"

She huffed, displeased. "King Arthur and Sir Gawain."

Geoff laughed aloud. "Oh please, the Round Table's been done to death! Loads of purple verse purloined straight from Geoffrey of Monmouth and Marie de France because no one can come up with anything new these days. Come, my dear, try again."

The writer got to her feet, clearly vexed. "It's not— it's about Gawain, it's about testing one's loyalty and vows, about going through a trial and coming out the other side changed— you know what, you wouldn't understand."

"Wouldn't I?"

"You write milksop dream visions, what would you know about quests that try one's very soul?"

"More than you, it seems, you've written nothing," Geoff said, gesturing at the blank parchment.

It was her turn to gape at him, and Geoff grinned. She visibly collected herself. "All right, fine, what have you written lately that's so brilliant?"

"I'll have you know I've started on a series of tales a group of people tell while in each others' company—"

"Oh, like the Decameron." Geoff faltered, and she looked terribly smug. "What was that about no one coming up with anything new these days?"

"'Like the Decameron,'" Geoff scoffed. "It's nothing— all right, it's a little like the Decameron, but only a little, and I'll tell you why—"

A strong hand gripped the back of his neck and he stopped dead. "Sorry, you two, but I'm gonna have to break it up. You're ruining what used to be a nice evening."

The writer abruptly sat down, and began to roll up her parchment and quill. "Apologies, sir, I didn't mean to cause any trouble. I should be off anyway."

"Nah, you're all right, miss. This one needs to be put in his place every so often," said Wat, shaking Geoff's neck a little. "Please come back anytime, but maybe less of the quarreling?"

The writer nodded, shot Geoff the stink eye, and vanished out the door.

"Wat, I didn't even get her name!" Geoff wriggled out of Wat's grip.

Wat looked up at him, feigning confusion. "Did you need it for something?"

"Well, it might have been nice to see if I could find any of her work," said Geoff. Wat shrugged, content with that. "There must be something out there, you don't just write a massive poem about King Arthur's knights if someone isn't paying you to do it."

"She might come back," said Wat, herding Geoff into the back room.

Geoff let himself be herded. "Since when do you stop fights, anyway?"

"Shouldn't get into fights with girls, Geoff, they'll clobber you every time." Wat prodded and nudged him up the stairs. "A stiff wind would blow you over."

"We should introduce her to Kate." Geoff looked at Wat. Wat looked at Geoff. "Or not."

In the bedchamber, Wat shut the door, pulled a drape over the single window, and flung himself on the bed. "I'm knackered."

"So go to sleep. But take your shoes off first, I'll not have you kicking me with them on." Geoff smiled as he heard them _thumpthump_ onto the floor as he banked the fire. "Thank you." Geoff kicked his own shoes off, removed his coat, and stretched out next to Wat. "And thank you for the rescue, my dear."

"Couldn't leave you to fend for yourself, she might've eaten you."

"Hush, you."

Geoff fancied that if the drape hadn't been drawn, the moon would be visible through the window. A waxing crescent tonight. He turned his head to improvise something about a ginger knight saving an author in distress, but Wat was already out like a snuffed candle. Geoff dropped a light kiss on his cheek, pulled the blanket over them, and curled up to sleep himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Geoffrey Chaucer really did receive a gallon of wine per day from Edward III, though we don't actually know why.
> 
> The writer in Wat's tavern is the Gawain (or Pearl) poet, who was probably not a woman but I can pretend. Also for the record _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ frickin slaps, Geoff knows nothing.


End file.
